“Go,” he said, both to Kowalski and Ashanda.
They set off again.
Uncle Crowe and the geologist slowed enough not to leave the others totally behind. Kai’s group gave chase, but that small delay may have doomed them all.
Less than a minute left.
“Run ahead!” Kai urged Jordan.
“No, I’ll stay with you.”
She feared for him. “Go, or we’ll all get bottlenecked at that squeeze. Get there and get through. I’ll be there. I promise.”
Jordan wanted to stay, but he read the determination in Kai’s eyes. “You’d better be!” he called back as he took off.
Kai looked over her shoulder. Kowalski was falling farther and farther behind, burdened by Rafael—who gasped and cried out every few steps, though he was clearly biting his tongue to keep from doing so.
Ashanda noted this, too.
The big woman finally fell back, taking Kai with her.
Oh no.
Ashanda scooped Rafael away from Kowalski and nodded to him to go.
He hesitated, but Kai waved him away with her free arm. They continued, moving faster. Kowalski led now, but Ashanda kept pace with him, even while carrying Rafael.
Uncle Crowe was waiting at the mouth of the tunnel. He wheeled his arm for them to hurry. “Twelve seconds!”
Kowalski eked out a bit more speed from his heavy legs and reached the tunnel.
“Get inside! Go as far down the tunnel as possible!”
Uncle Crowe rushed forward to Kai and the others. Trying to get them moving faster, he took Rafael and swung him bodily around like a rag doll. A bone snapped with an audible crack. A small cry escaped from the man, but nothing more.
“Seven seconds!”
Uncle Crowe pushed Rafael through the crack as if he were stuffing garbage down a chute. He then turned to Kai.
“Go!” she screamed, and rattled her cuff. “You’re in the way! We have to go through together!”
He understood and flew into the tunnel. She doubted he even touched the walls.
“Five!” he called back.
Suddenly Kai was lifted off her feet, picked up by the shoulders, as Ashanda charged the choke point.
“Four!”
Kai twisted sideways as the woman shoved her through the crack. Rock scraped her back, her cheek.
“Three!”
She fell to her knees in the tunnel, wrenching her shoulder.
Rafael lay crumpled next to her. He held his arm out to her.
“Two!”
Ashanda pushed her large form into the crack—and stopped.
Rafael stared up at her, some understanding filling his eyes. “Don’t, mon chaton noir.”
Kai didn’t understand.
“One!”
Ashanda smiled softly as the world exploded behind her.
6:04 A.M.
Painter dove forward and shielded Kai with his body. The blast sounded like the end of the world, accompanied by the burst of a supernova from within the far cavern. Brightness blazed into the tunnel, piercing through the small gaps like a flurry of sodium lasers around the form of the woman who was jammed into the crack.
He pictured the volume of nanotech erupting, tearing a hole in the universe and collapsing the tunnel. But he also remembered the first explosion in the Utah mountains, how the concussive force of the blast was minor, killing only the anthropologist and none of the nearby witnesses.
That wasn’t the true danger.
He rolled off Kai as the detonation echoed away and the blazing light dimmed back to darkness, leaving only traces burned into his retina. He blinked away the glare.
Kai sat up from where she’d been pinned down. “Ashanda . . .”
The woman hung limply in the crack, but she still breathed.
“Help her, please . . .” Rafael begged.
Painter stepped past Kai, who still remained tethered to the woman. Reaching up, careful of where he touched, he drew her out of the crack and let her weight pull her to the floor. He leaned her against the wall next to Rafael.
Moving back, he stared past the crack into the far chamber. Chin had returned and pointed his flashlight. It was unable to penetrate that darkness. A black fog seemed to fill the space: rock dust, smoke, and something Painter feared should never be in this world. The nano-nest. As some of it settled, he noted a deeper shadow back there, the mass of the ancient temple. But rather than growing clearer as the fog continued to dissipate, the dark shadow faded, dissolving away, as if it were an illusion.
A groan drew him back to the tunnel.
Ashanda’s eyes fluttered open, her head lolled back, as she struggled to regain consciousness.
“She was trying to protect us,” Kai said.
Painter suspected that her altruism was meant more for Rafael than for anyone else—but maybe not. Either way, they’d all benefited.
“She did protect us,” he agreed.
Even now, he watched the woman’s clothing on the side closest to the blast begin to lose color and drift down in flakes of fine ash. The dark skin beneath grew speckled as if it had been sprinkled with fine chalk—then those dots grew bigger, spreading, beginning to weep blood.
She was contaminated, whether by Chin’s nanobots or some other corrosive process. Using her own body like a shield, she had blocked the rain of particulate corruption from reaching them.
But the tunnel would not be safe for long.
The choke point at the end had begun to crumble, the rock turning to sand and sifting away.
“It’s happening much faster than in Utah,” Chin said. “A nano-nest of this size will likely grow exponentially from here.”
Painter pointed up the tunnel. “Grab Kowalski. You know what you have to do.”
“Yes, sir.” Still, Chin’s eyes looked longingly at the sight of the process as it began to spread, eating its way through all matter, his expression at once fascinated and horrified. Then he shoved around and headed up, collecting the others and herding them ahead of him.
Only Jordan refused to comply. He slipped under the geologist’s arm and came back down. “Are you okay?” he asked Kai.
She lifted her tethered arm.
Painter returned his attention to Rafael. “Give us the code for the handcuffs.”
But the Frenchman’s gaze remained fixed on his woman. She had regained a dazed, weak consciousness, her head leaning crookedly against the wall, staring back at him. Her breathing was shallow and rapid from pain. Blood flowed down her contaminated side, which was missing skin now, showing muscle.
“What have you done, Ashanda?” he murmured.
“Rafael, we need the code for the handcuffs.”
The bastard seemed deaf to Painter’s pleas, but Ashanda lifted her good arm a trembling fraction of an inch and let it drop, her desire clear.
Painter remained silent, knowing he could offer no better argument.
So he waited, watching the world slowly dissolve around him.
6:07 A.M.
Shattered on the stone floor, Rafael gazed into Ashanda’s eyes. She had sacrificed all for him. All of his life, he’d fought to prove himself, to others, to his family, even to himself—to rise above a shame that was no fault of his own. But in those dark eyes, such effort was never necessary. She saw him, watching in her silences, always there, always so strong.
In this moment he finally truly saw her.
The knowledge shattered him worse than any fall could have done.
“What have I done to you?” he whispered to her in French.
He reached to her cheek.
“Be careful,” Painter said, sounding far away.
Rafael was beyond such concerns. He knew his injuries were severe, that he was growing cold and slipping into shock. He tasted blood on his tongue with each breath, coming from a ripped lung and fractured ribs. Both legs had multiple breaks, likely his hip, too.
He was done for, but he would last long enough.
For h
er.
He brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone, down the line of her jaw, touching the hollow of her throat.
Her eyes closed ever so slightly.
Her lips shifted into a ghost of a smile.
Oh, my love . . .
He pulled her gently into his arms, felt the hot blood along her back, the tremble of agony. She tried to push him away, ever protecting him.
No, let me be the stronger one . . . just this one time.
Whether hearing his plea or simply too weak, Ashanda collapsed with a sigh against him. Her head rested on his shoulder, her eyes looking up at him with a joy he’d never seen before. He cursed himself for denying such simple happiness to her—and to himself.
A voice nagged in his ear.
To be done with it, he spoke five numbers, the code to the handcuffs.
A shuffling followed. He heard two young voices, hopeful and intense and full of such raw affection. Then they took that brightness and fled away.
Once alone, he leaned down and gently kissed those lips. He felt them quiver under his. He held her this way for an eternity, feeling each breath against his cheeks . . . growing slower, slower . . . then at last nothing.
He felt the same corruption now eating into him, through the palm that held her, the shoulder that supported her, even the lips that kissed her. But it was a wonderful pain. It came from her, and he would have it no other way.
So he held her to him.
A voice intruded. He turned to find Painter still there at his side. He thought the man had left. What had seemed an eternity must have been only minutes.
“What do you want, Monsieur Crowe?” he whispered coarsely, feeling parts of himself drifting away.
“Who are you?” Painter asked, crouched a few feet away like some vulture.
Rafael leaned his head back and closed his eyes, knowing what the man truly wanted. Though his body was spent, his mind remained sharp.
“I know who you seek, but they are not me. Nor my family.” He opened his eyes to stare at Painter. It hurt to talk, but he knew he must. “What you seek has no name. Not formally.”
“Then what do you know about them?”
“I know your oldest families here in America have roots that trace back to the Mayflower. That is nothing, mere hiccups in the march of history. Off in Europe, families have unbroken roots that go back two, three, four times as far. But there is a handful—a chosen few—whose heritage goes back much further. Some claim to be able to trace their lineage to the time before Christ, but who knows? I do know that they’ve been gathering wealth, power, knowledge, while manipulating history, hiding behind shifting faces, always changing. They are the secret within all secret societies.”
This seemed to raise an amused croak inside him—painful as it was to emit.
“Others have named these bloodlines les familles de l’étoile, the star families. I hear they once numbered more, but now there is but one, the True Bloodline. To stay strong, they seek to rebuild from younger families, like my own, families of the upper echelon.”
“Echelon?”
“A ranking system among the younger families who seek to join the Bloodline. First tier is designated by a single mark: the star and moon of the oldest mystère. The second adds the Freemasons’ square and compass. Another énigmatique order, non? And for our service in America, the Saint Germaine clan was granted entry to the third level. We were chosen—I was chosen—because of our knowledge of nanotechnology. An honor.” He coughed thickly, tasting blood. “Come see.”
Rafael turned his head and weakly lifted his hand to part the fall of hair that hid his mark. The third symbol had been added just days ago, inked in crimson around the older two, to mark his new elevation.
He heard Painter gasp, knowing what the man saw. In the center of the tattoo, the star and moon . . . encircling it, the square and compass . . . and around them both . . .
“The shield of the Knights Templar,” Painter whispered. “Another secret order.”
“And there are more, or so I’ve heard.” Rafael let his arm drop heavily. “As I said, we are the secret within all secret societies. This third mark brings my family one step closer to joining the True Bloodline on that highest pedestal. Or at least it would have.” Again a painful chuckle croaked forth. “Failure is severely punished.”
Painter remained quiet for a long breath, then spoke. “But to what end? What is the goal of all of this?”
“Ah, even I do not know everything. Some things you’ll need to discover on your own. I’ll tell you no more because I know no more.”
He closed his eyes and turned his face away.
After a time, Painter rose and headed back up the tunnel.
Once alone, Rafael Saint Germaine leaned down and gave one last kiss to his love, holding it until he felt those lips dissolve away—taking him with them.
Chapter 42
June 1, 6:22 A.M.
Yellowstone National Park
Painter burst out of the darkness into light.
He didn’t know what to think of Rafael’s claims: grand delusions, lies, madness, or truth. All he knew was that the danger below had to be stopped.
While talking to the Frenchman, Painter had stared out into the cavern. Nothing remained. No bodies, no temple. As rock turned to sand and sand to dust, what he saw there offended him at a fundamental level, frightened him to the core of his being. Steps away, there had swirled a storm of pure entropy, where order became chaos, where solidity had no meaning.
The nano-nest had to be destroyed.
In the short time he’d been down below, the Fairyland Basin had changed into a bustle of frantic activity. Helicopters dotted the valley floor, ferrying everyone clear. They had one last chance to stop the growing cancer below from eating its way down into the depths of the volcanic caldera. And that hope hinged on striking while the nano-nest was still relatively small and confined.
Painter strode across the valley toward where Chin and Kowalski were working. It looked like they were ready.
As he passed one of the helicopters, he spotted Kai and Jordan seated next to Hank. Kai turned and waved, but Jordan’s attention was on her alone. The professor leaned down and accepted a blanket-wrapped package from Major Ryan. Hank gingerly settled the dog to his lap, so as not to jar the broken leg. Ryan had insisted that Kawtch receive attention from the field medic before his own wounds were treated.
As Painter headed away, the chopper lifted off behind him, roaring skyward and kicking up a whirlwind. He joined Chin and Kowalski.
“Are you ready?” Painter asked.
“Just about done here.” Kowalski sat cross-legged on the ground. Coiled at his feet was a spool of detonation cord threaded through cubes of C4. “It’s just like stringing popcorn.”
“Remind me not to come over to your house for Christmas.”
He shrugged. “Christmas is okay. It’s Fourth of July that scares most people away.”
Painter could only imagine.
Kowalski plus fireworks. Not a good combination.
Chin stood beside the ten-foot geyserite cone called the Pitcher’s Mound. He had topographical maps spread out on the chalky fields of sinter, along with scans of the basin that had been done with ground-penetrating radar.
“This cone’s the best spot,” Chin said. “GPR scans show this is the closest access point to the plug blocking the geothermal vent below. Release that and the superheated cauldron suppressed deep in the earth will come roaring up like a sleeping dragon.”
The idea had been Painter’s, but the execution was all Chin and Kowalski. The geologist had earlier described how two forces had shaped Yellowstone: the volcanic eruptions from deep underground and the shallower hydrothermal explosions. While they needed intense heat to kill the cancer below, a volcanic eruption was not an option, definitely not here. So the next best thing was to attempt a hydrothermal explosion.
Painter proposed triggering a shallow, superhot blast to fry the nan
o-nest before it had a chance to drill its way down to the volcanic magma chamber six miles underground. While there was some threat of the hydrothermal explosion disturbing that magma chamber, too, it was less risky than doing nothing and letting that nano-nest eat its way down unchecked.
But how do you trigger a hydrothermal blast?
“Okay, let’s do this.” Kowalski stood, hauled up his bulky spool of C4, and crossed to Chin.
The geologist had tilted ladders against the minivolcano’s steep sides. The two of them climbed to the top, where steam was rising from a small opening, just large enough for a shaped charge of C4 to slip through. Lying on their bellies on the ladders, the two men fed the spooled C4—one cube at a time, a hundred cubes in all—down the mouth of the cone, sending the chain deep underground, dropping it as close to the rock blocking the hydrothermal vent as possible. Chin had calculated the amount of explosive they needed to shatter the rock.
Kowalski doubled it.
For once, Painter agreed with Kowalski.
Go all in . . . or go home.
“That’ll do it,” Chin said from atop the Pitcher’s Mound.
The two men slid down their ladders.
Kowalski rubbed his palms together in happy anticipation. “Let’s see if this C4 colonic works.”
Painter glanced his way. It actually wasn’t a bad description for blasting that blockage free. The trio hurried to the last helicopter, which was still waiting in the basin. Engines hot, its rotors already spinning. They climbed aboard, buckled in place, and took off.
The helicopter pilot spared no fuel.
The valley shrank rapidly below.
“That’s good!” Painter radioed over his headset.
With the chopper slowly circling, Painter gave Kowalski a thumbs-up. He already had the transmitter in hand. With a fierce grin, Kowalski pushed the button.
From this height and with the charges buried underground, the explosion sounded like distant thunder.
The Devil Colony Page 42
